


it's hard to survive this hole you've left behind

by amadridlover



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Butt Slapping, Captain kink, I don't know why I dragged Unai into this, Porto FC, Real Madrid CF, i apologise in advance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 15:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5791564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amadridlover/pseuds/amadridlover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Unai doesn’t fuck Sergio the way Iker used to. He’s a little smaller, a little thinner. When he lies on top of Sergio, he doesn’t quite cover him up in that way that makes him feel protected, owned. In a way that makes him lose control completely. But it’s close enough for Sergio. These days close enough is as good as it gets.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's hard to survive this hole you've left behind

**Author's Note:**

> Hola! I haven't written anything in ages and I'm not sure what this even is. It kind of just happened. I'm sorry for any mistakes, it hasn't been beta-read. 
> 
> (I really need to stop shipping pairings no-one else cares about ahhh!)

They are brought together for the same reason—to fill a hole they didn’t realise was missing. It sounds cliché, and that’s because it is. But, the hole is still there, and they both feel it. It _aches._

Unai doesn’t fuck Sergio the way Iker used to. He’s a little smaller, a little thinner. When he lies on top of Sergio, he doesn’t quite cover him up in that way that makes him feel protected, owned. In a way that makes him lose control completely. But it’s close enough for Sergio. These days close enough is as good as it gets.

Unai does this thing when he watches Sergio undress, he looks at him like he can’t believe this is actually happening. Like, _Christ_ , Sergio is forbidden fruit from the Garden of Eden or something, a prize, a pool of gold, something he wants _so much_ but isn’t allowed to have. To be fair to Unai, it’s not that far from the truth. It’s always been that way— _you can look but you can’t touch_. Sergio wasn’t _his_. It affects him. He can’t help the way his cock twitches as Sergio moans. That his breathing increases with every slow, thrust into that sweet, tight, heat. To know that it’s for him.

He feels like he’s breaking all the rules. Unai gets off on it, mostly. He resents it. _Sometimes_.

They both go into it thinking that it’s going to be uncomplicated.

It seems that way in the beginning, just bare skin and panting and a few choice swear words in a dark room. They don’t kiss—they’re not in love. It’s just a way to come to terms with the change.

(They’re both wrong.)

The first time they become aware of _his_ presence is the third time they’ve met up. Unai is thrusting into Sergio, keeping the defender’s arms pressed onto the mattress with a vice grip. A car horn blares outside. Sergio wants so badly to be into it but he’s not. He can’t help it. Real has just lost a game and he feels like it’s his fault because he should have been more decisive, more composed, more inspiring, more well— _Iker_ —and he feels like a failure all-round. Like sometimes this is too much. Sometimes he just can’t meet all the expectations. _His expectations—_ the voice inside him says.

Sergio feels sick, but the thought doesn’t go away.

It’s as if Unai can read him, because all of a sudden he becomes demanding and aggressive and Sergio’s surprised. He blinks. Doesn’t respond. To be honest, he really wasn’t paying that much attention. Unai’s always been a little more into it than Sergio.

“I told you to turn over,” Unai says in a low voice, and it’s so cold and commanding and Sergio is so unprepared for it that he scrambles to turn on his stomach. It’s only then that Sergio feels the shiver run through his body. Feels his toes twitch in anticipation. A rough hand on his ass. Out of nowhere his cock is hard, trapped between his body and the sheets. Unai rewards him by assaulting his hole with two fingers: injecting, probing, stretching. Sergio whimpers.

It feels good _._

Of course it does. Familiar even. Sergio feels like his shoulders are lighter, his temples free from the pressure he didn’t even realise was setting up home there. He doesn’t have to think. Unai continues to control him, to talk to him in that same, steel tone.  

Unai commands, and Sergio cries out. He raises his ass up as much as he can, meeting every rise and fall of Unai’s hips. “More.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Sergio chants, answering what is being asked of him. And something shifts. Suddenly, Sergio is back on the field, running, chasing the ball and Iker is calling out for _more_. Always _more._

Sergio freezes, flips around and looks at Unai with big eyes, disturbed. He sees recognition there, like maybe, just maybe Unai is doing it on purpose. Unai reaches his hand down to envelop Sergio’s cock, giving him a knowing smirk.

“Yes what?” Unai asks him, pinching Sergio’s nipple with his thumb and index finger, half-way to pain, half-way to pleasure. Sergio looks at him, his eyes disbelieving. Unai pinches harder, removing his other hand from cupping Sergio.

He almost can’t get the words out.

“Yes C-captain,” Sergio stutters, his cheeks burning.

There’s a moment where they both look at each other, just a split second, where they panic. Where they acknowledge that they’ve crossed a line. That there’s no going back.

Sergio watches himself come over Unai’s hand with shocked eyes, unable to help the moan that escapes his lips. Later, Unai strokes his cheek with one long finger and Sergio shudders. He doesn’t speak to him as he leaves. Sergio only lets himself feel ashamed when he hears the click of the door.

 

\--

 

It sort of cannonballs after that.

Unai lets Sergio come over to his apartment, and they hang out, like they’re friends or something. It’s a lie but they both hope that it will help justify this in some way, because, holy shit fuck crap they like this. They’re _into_ it.

They eat pizza and they watch movies on crappy free-to-air television not because Unai doesn’t have pay-per-view but because they’re faking enthusiasm for b-grade movies they’re both too wired-up to notice suck as much as they do—all so they don’t have to admit what is happening. Their eyes are focused on the screen and their hands grip their beers tightly. They don’t look at each other. They don’t count the minutes to the film’s end. They don’t wonder if it’s rude to skip the credits. They don’t try to gage what the quickest way to the bedroom is (over the coffee table, knock down the armchair).  They don’t stifle their aroused moans as they wait so patiently. So painstakingly patient.

In the end they don’t make it to the bed, they don’t even make it from the couch. Unai gets rid of his clothes quickly and it’s so businesslike that Sergio wants to tease him about it. But. His attention is drawn to the pale white—because Unai is standing over him, his mouth in a hard, thin-pressed line and just at that moment the sun decides to shift and white light filters through the blinds covering the window and Unai is covered in a glow. He is illuminated.

Just for one second Sergio thinks it’s _him_ because only _he_ shines like that. (Only _he_ has the right to shine like that.) In the afternoon light the differences are less noticeable and it’s so easy for Sergio to pretend. If he wants to. (Yes, yes, he does. So much.)

When Unai shoves Sergio’s head down, past the arm of the sofa, he just goes with it. Closes his eyes as his nose presses into the side of the couch. The smell of the suede makes his head dizzy, but that might just be the adrenaline catching up to him. Unai lets his hand trail over Sergio’s bare cheeks, exposed and risen on the arm of the couch.

His skin tingles as he feels Unai bend his head close and blow cold air. Sergio wants to squirm but he doesn’t. He can tell Unai has withdrawn. He waits in anticipation.

_Slap._

Sergio yells out in surprise, cricks his neck in his attempt to get up quickly, off the couch, to look at Unai and tell him _hey what the fuck do you think you’re doing_ and then proceed to pull up his pants, grab his shoes that are just by the door and leave—no _run_ from—the apartment. What he finds instead is a hand on the back of his neck, keeping his head down forcefully. And another slap. This time on his left cheek.

His eyes are stinging and the blood rushes to his head. He wants to cry out but he can’t bear the thought of giving Unai the satisfaction. He hasn’t been treated this way, well, since _him._ And then it was different. _Then_ he was in agreement. Each slap was forgiven with each kiss just below his ear, to the hollow of his throat, to the sensitive skin below his hip. It was different, it was different. Sergio’s eyes are wet, his stomach is. He feels hot guilt pulse through his veins. Because. Well, the thing is. He’s…

Sergio realises as crudely as an angry wave crashes on a cliff, that he’s not opposed to this because of what Unai’s doing, but rather, because it is _Unai_ that’s doing it. And Sergio feels horrible. Because it’s not the same. But in a way, it is.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Sergio’s brought out of his thoughts and is surprised at the absence of weight on his legs, covering his body. He cautiously lifts himself up from hanging over the sofa. Unai is biting his lip, looking unsure. And _God,_ Sergio thinks, _this is so messed up._

He studies Unai’s profile, his dark lashes and straight nose. His soft lips and strong jaw. Sergio thinks it’s too easy to believe that they’re related.

He feels drawn to him in a way a fish is attached to a line. Trying to swim away, to be free, but ultimately stuck, always coming back despite the struggle.

“I’m sorry,” Unai murmurs, turning to Sergio. He reaches out with his hand and wipes at Sergio’s eyes softly, strokes his face with tender fingers. His lips are parted and Sergio can see he wants to say things he hasn’t got the words to say.

Sergio crumbles.

They’re kissing. Mouths moving carefully, feeling the drag of their tongues in each other’s mouth. Unai leans Sergio down until he’s on his back. The motion is gentle, quieter somehow and Sergio moans into Unai’s mouth. Unai flicks his tongue in approval and sucks on Sergio’s lips, pulling at them slowly with his teeth. 

This time Sergio is scrambling up the couch, raising his ass up to Unai’s inspection.

“Sergio,” Unai warns in a low voice. He’s trying to stay controlled, ignoring the keening sounds coming deep from Sergio’s throat. He never could resist him, never could say no. And now he has his chance—but he doesn’t want to hurt him. He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t do that to him. (Or _him._ )

Sergio is insistent, wriggling his ass in the air needily.

Unai is torn.

“Sergio, you don’t want this.”

He’s met by a _mm-mm_ in disagreement.

He doesn’t know what to do. He sits back on his heels, looking at Sergio writhing on the couch, asking for him. Begging him. It’s crude and beautiful at the same time. And he thinks, _surely this can’t be wrong._

“Please, Unai.” Sergio’s voice wavers, sounds so vulnerable that Unai irrationally wants to kiss every inch of his skin. But that’s not what they are, that’s not how they do things. “I-I want this.”

Unai takes a deep breath.

“Say it, then.”

Sergio whines in desperation, now rutting against arm of the sofa.

“God damn it, I’m not going to touch you Sergio until you say it.”

“Please, Captain.”

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments make my day/week/month! Please let me know what you think! <33


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